


Like a Desert Flower Waiting for Rain

by Ewebie



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen, Other, This is sad pining angsty umbrella...?, brollylock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-16
Updated: 2015-06-16
Packaged: 2018-04-04 17:04:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4145736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ewebie/pseuds/Ewebie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Absolute crack. I blame everyone. This was requested... and... I have no excuse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like a Desert Flower Waiting for Rain

**Author's Note:**

  * For [May_Shepard](https://archiveofourown.org/users/May_Shepard/gifts).



I am not overly elegant. I was designed for function over form, but at least my form is aesthetically pleasing to some. I’ve been told I’m overly rigid, perhaps a bit too formal, sharp and barbed where some like gentler curves. But I do my job, I do it well, and I am quite adept at fulfilling a wide variety of roles. I’m terribly proud of the way I punctuate the salient arguments I witness. I would have been happy, pleased to continue on as I’d been, working, laboring under the pretense of enjoying my predestined purpose.

I would have been.

Then I saw him.

And I wouldn’t be content.

I cannot possibly explain what it was that first time. He wasn’t himself; he wasn’t well. But there was something about him. Something that had me looking forward to the next time my employer felt the need to visit with the man. I was, oddly taken with him. With his odd manner and brash behaviors. The baritone of his voice. That wild hair. And his eyes…

The first time he touched me, I’m sure he was totally unaware. It was just the hem of his dressing gown, silk and soft, that brushed against me. Cold and hot all at once. I was besotted 

The second time he touched me, it was with a gentle caress. Elegant, dexterous fingers stroking against black taffeta. I was lucky. Wound so tight, my bottom spring almost gave loose. I was bewitched.

The third time. Oh the third time. A firm grip, hands tight in flexion. Wielding like a weapon, driving my ferrule into that bloke’s sternum. His palms were warm as they stroked down my ribs, and I do not exaggerate when I say his thumb fondled my crook. I was beguiled.

Then… Then he came along. The other one. The shorter one. The one that smelled of antiseptic and had calluses on his stubby, grubby little mitts. And he stole all of the attention. The next time I was in the flat, he was there. He interrupted. He ignored my punctuating tapping. He made me impotent. And of course the next time I was open, stretchers out, ribs extended, shaft exposed; the next time I was fulfilling my intended purpose, he was there. He interrupted. He kept me out in the rain and took my task of messenger. And he does even appreciate my function! Terrible.

And then. Then. The moment I thought I would be touched again, those long, lovely fingers might collect me from the ground, bring me back to upright, I thought… And I was wrong. And that interloper grabbed me, thrust me back into the waiting arms of my employer and we were gone. And I am left… pining.


End file.
